Coming Home
by daleksanddetectives
Summary: After the fall, John goes back into full time work as a doctor in a local hospital, until one day a man going by the name John Smith turns up, unconscious, feverish, and with a gunshot wound. Who exactly is he? And why does he look so familiar? Post-Reichenbach & reunion.


"Please could Doctor Watson make his way to the A&E department immediately, Doctor Watson to A&E," a shrill voice calls over the hospital PA system.

John sighs and puts his paperwork to the side. He stands and grabs his white coat and cane from the hook by the door, glances around his office and sets off for the A&E section of the hospital. Several nurses nod and smile at him as he marches through the corridors, his cane clicking against the floor with each step. He'd managed to gain a lot of respect in the few months since he'd started working there. John thought it was because in his first week he'd save both the child having a severe allergic reaction and bandage up the teenager who had fallen at school and cracked their head against the corner of a table, while still being able to check on all his other patients without having to work overtime, when in fact, they all knew exactly who he was before he had been employed there. They all knew of his relationship with the late Sherlock Holmes, they read the blog, and of course it didn't take a genius to realise why John had been working so hard since his arrival.

Just as John arrives at the A&E, he bumps into Doctor King, who he had become well-acquainted with during his time working there.

"Good to see you, John," King smiles, "about the patient they just brought in, you were called for him weren't you?"

John nods.

"I hope you don't mind, but I was there and managed to get him stabilised and sorted for now. I think he'll need to stay for a few nights at least, but you can be the judge of that. They managed to get him cleaned up quite well in the ambulance, but he's your patient now," King winks and bumps John's arm, and pushes a thin file into his arms, before walking away to speak with a nurse.

John smiles and opens the folder, "John Smith?" He says aloud. Shrugging, he begins to read the rest of the information.

_Name: John Smith_

_Age: approx. 36_

_Gunshot wound to right shoulder. Passed out from blood loss. Feverish. No ID. One credit card with name of SMITH, JOHN. Found by DI Greg Lestrade, Scotland Yard. _

_Room: 189B_

John frowns at not only the lack of information, but also the familiar name of Greg Lestrade. He hadn't seen Greg in a while, _at least he didn't lose his job after everything that happened with Sherlock and Moriarty_, he thinks, shivering at the memory. In a way, that was the reason he had started working at the hospital. He had only been doing a few hours a week at the surgery, and he felt as though he needed to fill up his time somehow (and find something more permanent, that would help pay the bills and rent), rather than mope about the flat, feeling sorry for himself. So, he'd gone back to the NHS. He couldn't go back to St. Bart's. Not with all the history between himself and the building, so he'd found another hospital, one not too far away from Baker Street and would accept an ex-army doctor with a psychosomatic limp.

Sighing, John taps a passing paramedic, asking Mr Smith's whereabouts. The paramedic tells him the patient has been taken to a private room and should still be unconscious. John thanks him and opens the file again, double checking the room number. _189B_.

John sets off for the second floor, when he reaches the room, he politely knocks, just in case the man had woken up. When there is no answer, John opens the door and spots a blonde, thin man in the bed, either sleeping or out-cold, the heart monitor beeping steadily.

John checks the chart at the end of the bed, hoping for more details about the man. Nothing he didn't already know. He sighs and puts it back; he might as well take a closer look while Smith is sleeping. He steps to the bedside, quickly checking the heart monitors and drips. He gasps when he sees the man's face close up.

"Sherlock?" John breathes. He leans closer to take a closer look at the man's face, _it can't be. Sherlock is dead. He just looks a lot like him. A relative? _Suddenly, Smith blinks awake and begins to look around the room, cataloguing everything. Eventually the grey eyes settle on John, widening with what appears to be fear, and possibly guilt.

"That is you, isn't it? Sherlock? I'm not losing my mind, am I?"

Sherlock coughs, unsure of what to say. He settles with, "I'm sorry, John. I wish this had happened differently."

John puffs up, "you're a real dick, you know that? I thought I was your _friend_," he pauses for breath, "no, you're Sherlock Holmes, the genius. And what am I? The idiotic sidekick? Did you get bored of me? Was there no other way out?" John sneers, "I believed in you. I thought you were dead."

Sherlock's eyes widen. He tries to sit up, but quickly gives up, wincing and clutching at his shoulder, "It was for your safety. There were snipers. It was Moriarty. It was my life or yours, and I couldn't let you die," he snaps.

John opens his mouth again to hurl abuse back, but Sherlock interrupts.

"Leave, John. Go see to your other patients. I'll be fine. Mycroft will have me discharged by the morning. I can take care of myself."

John groans and waves Sherlock's, or John Smith's, file in the air, "do you have any idea how lucky you are to be alive right now? Just one centimetre to the left, and that bullet could have actually killed you," he leaves the file on the table and limps towards the door, "sod this. I'll be back in the morning for a check-up. Doctor King and the paramedics did a good job."

Sherlock stares as the door is slammed.

Sometime in the early morning, when John has cooled down, he sits in the plastic chair by Sherlock's bedside and studies his friend's sleeping face. He's a lot thinner than the last time John saw him, his cheekbones startlingly prominent. There's also faint stubble on his cheeks, something John had never been sure Sherlock could grow, as he had always seen him smooth skinned. His hair is longer and unruly, the roots dark brown, the rest dirty blonde. John is too preoccupied to notice when Sherlock has woken, studying John in much the same way. He coughs lightly, John jumps.

"Have you been eating at all?" John tries to joke.

Sherlock's eyebrows pull together. He stays silent.

"Listen, I'm sorry for my outburst earlier. I was just really upset and annoyed, alright? I still am. I thought you were dead. I watched you fall."

Sherlock sighs, "I am sorry, you know. I didn't mean for it to go this way." He looks at John's hand and lifts his own. John takes it and starts rubbing comforting circles on Sherlock's palm.

"I had to. Moriarty's web was large. I had to bring it down, branch by branch. I successfully broke down the seven spread across Europe and only had the London branch left. The assassin, Moran, shot me as he was being arrested. It seems as though he had a spare gun on him, which I carelessly failed to notice and remove."

"Eight months, Sherlock. You could have come to me, told me in secret?"

"No, it was too dangerous. I also didn't think that it would take this long. I was hoping to be home within six."

"And how were you going to do that? Waltz back into 221b, 'Hello John! I'm not actually dead, make me a cuppa and some toast would you? I'm starved!'"

Sherlock drops his eyes to their joined hands and stays silent.

"Why didn't Greg recognise you when he found you?"

"Mycroft informed him when I returned to London. That way I would be able to carry out my plans under the police radar."

"So Greg knew you were alive and I didn't. That's lovely. Look, this isn't something I can just adjust to. I thought you were dead. I carried your coffin. I buried you. I mourned. I-" he rubs his face with his free hand and lets out a shaky breath, "I'm still mourning, in a way."

"I am sorry. It had to be done."

"Just, give me some time," John shakes his head, "we can work this out. Eventually."

Sherlock smiles and gives John's hand a quick squeeze.

They sit, quietly comfortable in each other's company for a few minutes, when Sherlock smirks and looks down at his bandaged shoulder, "we match."

"Excuse me?"

"We match. Our shoulders, I mean."

John chuckles, fiddling with the grip on his cane, "I suppose so, trust you to point that out."

Sherlock lets himself smile, his first genuine smile since his fall, _I'm finally home. _


End file.
